you that he loves to keep Christmas-day in the true old English fashion.
How does he keep it?

It is eight o'clock, and Mr. CHOKEPEAR rises from his goose-down. He
dresses himself, says his short morning thanksgiving, and being an
economist of time, unconsciously polishes his gold watch-chain the while.
He descends to the breakfast parlour, and receives from lips of ice, the
wishes of a happy Christmas, pronounced by sons and daughters, to whom, as
he himself declares, he is "the best of fathers"--the most indulgent of
men.

The church-bell tolls, and the CHOKEPEARS, prepare for worship. What
meekness, what self-abasement sits on the Christian face of TOBIAS
CHOKEPEAR as he walks up the aisle to his cosey pew; where the woman, with
turned key and hopes of Christmas half-crown lighting her withered face,
sinks a curtsey as she lets "the miserable sinner" in; having carefully
pre-arranged the soft cushions and hassocks for the said sinner, his wife,
his sons, and daughters. The female CHOKEPEARS with half the produce of a
Canadian winter's hunting in their tippets, muffs, and dresses, and with
their noses, like pens stained with red ink,--prepare themselves to
receive the religious blessings of the day. They then venture to look
around the church, and recognising CHOKEPEARS of kindred nature, though
not of name, in pews--(none of course among the _most_ "miserable sinners"
on the bare benches)--they smile a bland salutation, and--but hush! the
service is about to begin.

And now will TOBIAS CHOKEPEAR perform the religious duties of a Christian!
Look at him, how he feeds upon every syllable of the minister. He turns
the Prayer-book familiarly, as if it were his bank account, and, in a
moment, lights upon the prayers set apart for the day. With what a